To which, of course, I spelt out: N-O.
‘Remarkable! Truly remarkable. To know the limits of one’s learning is knowledge indeed, and as scarce—I dare say—among Humans as those of the Porcine race.’ He then turned from me to Sam. ‘Mr Nicholson, have you trained this pig?’
‘I have, sir—well, my former master, Mr Bisset, gave him his first training, but I continued it. He taught him only to spell out words on command. I was the one as taught him to read, sir.’
‘And you did not think it a Waste of learning to bestow it upon a pig?’
‘Not at all, sir. Why, he had a liking for it from the start. Besides, what good is it, to pig or man, to spend one’s whole career following commands in ignorance of their meaning or effect?’
‘And to what purpose?’
‘Why, for his enjoyment, sir. And mine.’
‘And for the Exhibition of these talents to the Public, you mean.’
‘Well, yes. We all have to make a living, sir. But I never made reading part of the Act, sir. You see, if people had known that Toby could read, they’d have thought the less of him, odd as it seems. Better they think it a miracle, or some Trick they can’t see through.’
‘Yes. A showman must please the multitude. But what of yourself? What, more to the point, of Toby? Is there not a certain weariness in being bound to the Stage? Is there no more nectar to be had in other Pastures?’
‘Why, surely there is, sir. But how should we have it? We have to pay our costs and our carriage. All must have their food, their straw and their shelter.’
‘Yes, indeed. Well! You know the history of this University?’
‘I know it’s old, sir.’
‘Yes—more than six hundred years old. But in its day, it was little more than such a pasture. The hunger and thirst for learning made men linger here, and to sustain themselves in that endeavour, they made arrangements for food and shelter. The spirit must lead the mind, and the mind the body, not the other way about.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. But not all of us have the ability to follow your good advice. Stomach calls, and the legs must needs follow, carrying mind and spirit with them—if you take my meaning, sir.’
At this the old gentleman let out a long and hearty laugh, and clapped Sam on his back, at last declaring, ‘Well said, well said. I must be off now, but if you would do me the courtesy of calling upon me before you leave Oxford, I would very much like to receive you.’
To this Sam readily agreed, and was given an address upon a card. Having several more shows to do, we did not examine it until long after his departure, when we were gathered about a table in the yard of the Spotted Cow, myself having (for the occasion) a pint of Porter in a bowl set beside my customary meal of Oats. It read simply:
Dr William Adams
Pembroke College
This name meant nothing to us, though we assumed he was some Fellow or Tutor, and we decided to call upon him the next morning, as we were due to move on to the Salisbury Arms in the village of South Weston for a show the following day. It was only by chance that Sam mentioned the name to the Innkeeper, who at once let out a low whistle.
‘Dr Adams! Don’t you know? Why he’s the Master of Pembroke, and a great man, for he was the Tutor of a still greater man.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘Why, Dr Johnson, of course! You know, he as wrote the Dictionary, and many another book besides.’
Which news amazed us both, for while we might know little of the doings of Schollers in their Gothic alcoves, it seemed that everyone knew of Dr Johnson. Indeed, among the modest shelf of books I could claim to my credit, his Rasselas was one of my favourites, and I had a neat little copy in Duodecimo among my personal Belongings.
Then came the Morning. We both trembled a little at being invited to join such august Company, but we could hardly refuse such a generous invitation. It proved to be but a short walk through the centre of the town to reach the College, and when we presented Dr Adams’s card to the Porter, we were at once treated with unusual courtesy. Our horses and wagon were led into the Stables, and we were escorted across the inner yard to the Master’s lodgings. We were met at the gate by Dr Adams himself, and he invited us to join him for tea and toast in his private garden. It was a somewhat awkward moment, despite—perhaps because of—his kindness; there had even been set down a copper basin for my own use at the foot of the table. Happily, my Benefactor had brought with him the smaller set of Cards, which we used for our own communications, and by means of these I was able (at least) to make answer for myself.
Inevitably, our talk soon came round to Dr Johnson. I expressed my admiration for the man, and brought forth my little copy of Rasselas as evidence. Dr Adams was delighted to behold it, and praised it as the most moral book the good Doctor had yet produced. He himself had encouraged his former pupil to compile a book of Prayers and Meditations, and had continually urged upon him the importance of Religion in a man’s life. To these exhortations Dr Johnson had grown increasingly amenable, the more so as he had lately been quite ill, and could hear time’s winged chariot drawing ever nearer. In fact, he was contemplating a final visit to Oxford, not knowing how much longer might be his allotment of life, and would be staying with Dr Adams—how astonished he would be to meet a Pig who had read his works! If we were to consider remaining, it would be most gratifying, and he would be delighted to Introduce us.
To these enticements my Benefactor replied with both gratitude and regret: our business in South Weston, and the other hamlets on the way to London, could not wait; it was in the nature of the showman’s trade to make one’s bookings in season, and to disappoint them would be ruinous. Dr Adams then enquired as to how much we generally made at one of these Venues, and Sam was forced to admit that, while we often took in as much as six or seven Pounds, our costs—when food and lodging were included—were often equal to or greater than that Sum.
‘Well, Master Nicholson, I was about to propose that I compensate you for your time at least as well as your Shows would earn you—but now I see that to do so, I should have to Take rather than Give. But let me then give you more than your Custom, and closer to your Deserving. I can offer you a room here that lies at my disposal, with food and straw for Toby in our stables and meals for you and your boy in our Common Room. It would be for a week at most, for I have here a letter from Dr Johnson in which he purposes to arrive no later than the sixth instant.’
Seeing that Sam still hesitated, he leaned over, cupping his hand to his mouth as though to communicate some secret: ‘And that is not all. I will give you, besides, two shillings a day for your trouble and, more, I will commence with Toby a programme of continuing his Education, as far as time and his capacity will permit. He shall begin with a course of Grammar, Rhetoric and Logic, and then proceed, if he so choose, on the long-appointed path to Arithmetic, Geometry, Music and Astronomy. We have here at the College many of the leading lights of these times, and he shall have the best Tutors in every subject, under my direct supervision. Come, come, what say you? Is it not a fair offer?’
There was little my Benefactor could say in response to so magnanimous a proposal, but he managed to offer one further query: ‘What of me, then?’
‘You shall be included in our tutorials. For you and Toby have known and worked alongside one another for so long, I could scarcely hope to separate you, even if that were my wish. No, both shall have the benefit of this course of study. What say you?’
We could both say only, ‘YES’—and so it was agreed.
12
The week that followed, although spent in the quiet confines of Pembroke College and its grounds, was surely the most Eventful of my brief Existence. I was awakened each morning by the stable-keeper, who brought my oaten breakfast. At these meals I was joined every morning by Sam, and quite often by Dr Adams, who liked to begin his day early.
Michaelmas term being yet some weeks distant, the college’s rooms were largely empt
y, although a number of the Fellows were in residence, and each morning Dr Adams invited one or two to join us. For our meetings, a stout wooden table was set up adjacent to the stables, and chairs brought out; I was given a large washing-bucket, which, overturned, made an ideal Platform, raising me to a height where I could see and be seen by all. Sam sat beside me and, using the shorthand we had perfected for the Stage, I could quite readily give answer to any of the many questions that were put to us—or, I should say, to me. I am pleased to recall that all those who came to the table as Sceptics departed from it convinced that, whatever other wonders the world might hold, a Sapient Pig must be counted among them.
Dr Adams, having proposed that he would model my Education on the Seven Liberal Arts, was as good as his Word, commencing with Grammar, in which he instructed me himself. I was amazed to find that Latin, far from being a language of especial Difficulty, was in fact easier than English, and much more consistent in its Spelling. In my early days of learning, I had been Irked to find that English employed the same letters, such as gh to convey such vastly different sounds as those of ‘laugh’, ‘caught’ and ‘Ghent’—and so it was with much relief that I found the Latin c was always hard, that ph always made the sound f, and that its nouns were in every way Harmonious in terms of number, possession and all their other Forms (though these were, it was true, more numerous than in English). By the end of that first week, I was composing simple sentences, and had begun to read through the little volume of Sententiæ Antiquæ with which Dr Adams had provided me.
The anticipation that attended the arrival of Dr Johnson was enormous, and as the day drew nearer, my studies had to be suspended for a time, as the Master and all the Fellows were altogether Consumed with preparations. A large Banquet was to be held in the Hall, speeches and verses composed for the occasion, and a suite of rooms made ready for the great man and his entourage. I was greatly disappointed to learn that Mr Boswell was not to be among them, he and Johnson having been Sundered some time previous by a small misunderstanding grown Large, as so often happens among Humans. Never the less, the learned Doctor was to be accompanied by several other of his Friends, along with his personal Physician, and two men whose special job it was to carry the sedan chair he at times required, due to a great Swelling in his legs. According to his most recent letters to Dr Adams, he was feeling generally much Improved, without any fresh attacks of the Dyspnoea or pain of the Lungs with which he had previously been much afflicted.
The appointed day having arrived, I was brought from my usual place atop the washing-bucket by the stables to a new seat of honour in a corner of the Master’s garden, where a low platform had been specially erected. My Benefactor was in attendance, and with him he brought the larger pasteboard letters we used for our Public performances. Dr Adams had, strategically, I believe, seated us at the very End of the receiving line, a place which, though least in Priority, was—like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence—greatest in Emphasis. My only fear was that the learned Doctor, whose health, though much improved, was still quite Fragile, might be forced by sheer Exhaustion to cut short his travails along this procession of obsequious Welcomers, and go directly to the Banquet within.
I need not have worried—for, indeed, the Great Man was disposed, his time of life having grown short just as his Reputation reached its Apex, to move along the line quite according to his Whims, passing over many a bow and scrape with an expression of Impatience, and so coming, very shortly after having snubbed the most junior of the Fellows, to our place, with Dr Adams at his side. He leaned forward, bracing himself with a stout walking-stick, and peered so directly at me that, were I a Human, I am sure I would have blushed. He then turned to his old master with a jovial look.
‘Dr Adams, I suppose this must be Toby, the learned Pig of whom we have heard so much?’
‘Indeed it is.’
He turned again to face me. ‘I have a friend, Mr Toby—well, not exactly a friend in the usual sense, but more a jousting-partner of the pen, Miss Anna Seward. She tells me that, some year or so past, she saw you perform at Astley’s in Dublin, and went so far as to pin a Medal—upon your Waistcoat! Now I have never known a pig to wear a waistcoat, nor can I conceive what use it could be to him—but now I understand there is a greater wonder still, that you are being instructed in the rudiments of Grammar by Dr Adams here.’
I bowed slightly, and quickly answered, Y-E-S.
‘Then can you tell me, sir, what form the noun litera takes in the Dative Plural?’
Without hesitation, I spelt out: L-I-T-E-R-I-S.
‘And the vocative plural?’
L-I-T-E-R-A-E.
Clearly impressed, he turned back to Dr Adams, and asked him how old I was, and how long I had pursued my studies.
‘Toby is nearly three years old,’ he replied. ‘With me, his studies have been scarcely a week, but it was from Mr Nicholson here that he first learnt his letters.’
Sam blushed.
‘Then,’ replied the Doctor, his great face a-bloom with ruddy indignation, ‘is the Pig a race unjustly calumniated! Pig has, it seems, not been wanting to man, but man to pig. Why, we hardly allow time for his education, killing him at a year old!’
One of the Fellows, who was loitering at Johnson’s elbow, took this moment to give it as his view that considerable Torture must have been employed in order to make an animal so Stubborn into such a supple Instrument of learning. At this, the Doctor turned at once to my Benefactor.
‘What means did you employ to teach your Pig? What threats? What tools? What commands?’
‘None sir,’ Sam replied. ‘He first had his training from my late master, Mr Bisset, who never raised a hand to him, and as soon as I shewed him the Connection between Letters and Sense, he did the rest himself.’
‘Remarkable! Why, this pig would have been killed in his first Year had he not been educated, and some would say protracted existence would be fair recompense for a considerable degree of Torture. My old master at Lichfield, the Reverend Hunter, was a Brute of a man, and if there was a path to Learning that could be trod without Lashes, he knew nothing of it. And yet here we have a kindness out of Kind—a boy whose gentle guidance brings so recalcitrant a creature to his Letters! Commendable, lad!’
Well satisfied with his encounter, Dr Johnson accepted the arm of Dr Adams and, with this help on his Left, and his stick upon his Right, managed the way up the stairs, down the corridor and into the Hall. We could see his Progress through the windows, and as soon as he was seated, Dr Adams sent for us, and we found that we, too, were to partake of the Banquet. Indeed, I was told later that it was at Dr Johnson’s personal insistence that we were brought, and given seats quite near his, seats that many of the Fellows had coveted, as they jostled against one another to gain Proximity to their learned Guest. I believe this was the beginning of a general Resentment of my Position by many at the College, which later grew to such proportions that Dr Adams had constantly to contend with it. Never the less, for that one day at least, I felt that I had accomplished something so very Notable that it distinguished me for ever among all the Animals who have had the benefit of Lessons: I was invited to dinner by Dr Johnson.
The next day, the estimable Doctor was unwell again, having perhaps over-exerted himself at the Banquet in his honour. There is, it must be admitted at once, something tedious in Praise, the more so when it is the better Deserved. For if one has, in plain fact, accomplished great things, and presuming that one has not lost one’s memory or other Faculties, this whole Business of praise is rather like an endless rehearsal of a Play based on one’s own life. And, unless the Playwrights be men of uncommon gifts (and this is rare), the Play itself is not the thing, but rather a poor imitation or repetition of matters that one knows already, and yet one to which it is Impossible, without great breach of protocol, to Object. On and on it must go, through every last execrable verse upon the occasion of one’s wonderful Visit, until the Visit itself be damned for the Vi
sitor. Dr Johnson spent the next day in bed, attended by his Physician, who prescribed a regimen of Squills to keep the water down. By these means, he was by that evening much Improved, and the next day was able to accompany Dr Adams on a tour of Pembroke and some of the more notable sights of the University. Alas, although much disposed to ascend, he was defeated by the sixty-five steps to the Bodleian Library, an edifice of which it may be said that the path of Learning is at its Steepest. He departed the next morning with his Entourage, intending to visit Lichfield, where he wished to call upon Miss Seward.
Here I must insert a word about this magnificent Woman, whose virtues it quite exceeds my capacity adequately to praise. I had not known her name until Dr Johnson happened to mention the matter of the Medal, and upon Reflection, I realised that it was she, too, who had addressed me in Chester. On that latter occasion, I had not been able to linger, and had had no opportunity to Thank her in person; in the dim light of the Theatre, I had not been entirely certain of her Identity. That she was an acquaintance of Dr Johnson I would never have guessed, but now that I knew, I was most anxious to learn more of her. From Dr Adams I heard something of her history: she was, in fact, the granddaughter of Dr Johnson’s late schoolmaster in Lichfield, the man whose stern manners and frequent employment of the Lash were so ill-remembered by his famous Pupil. She herself was a remarkable Scholler, and was said to have been able to recite passages from ‘L’Allegro’ when she was only Three. There was a sad chapter to her life as well: her sister Sarah, who had been engaged to Dr Johnson’s stepson, had fallen ill and died on the very eve of their Wedding, much to the distress of both families.
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